


personal log

by izzybeth



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-14
Updated: 2009-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-02 16:10:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izzybeth/pseuds/izzybeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>no scotch and no human contact make Scotty something something. go crazy? don't mind if i do!</p>
            </blockquote>





	personal log

**Author's Note:**

> written for [scottython](http://community.livejournal.com/scottython) on LJ (prompt #36: a glimpse at Mirror!Scotty in the XI verse). everything is Roddenberry's, nothing is mine. massive thanks to antigone_ks for telling me it doesn't suck like a straw. language. shouting. casual scientific experimentation. equations (general gravity, velocity, negative mass, and closing speed, all yoinked from wikipedia. i know nothing about math). all knowledge of stills obtained from [moonshine-still.com](http://www.moonshine-still.com/) and that one ep of Battlestar Galactica. also, first ever attempt at Star Trek fic. you have, as they say, been warned.

Personal log Engineer Montgomery Scott: Stardate 2257.228. Otherwise known as 16 August, otherwise known as DAY FIVE ON THIS GODFORFUCKINGSAKEN LUMP OF ICE.

Is this thing on?

It's probably about eighteen degrees in Aberdeen. It's negative three billion here. There is nothing to eat. Archer is a rubber-spined, cowardly, worthless piece of shit who doesn't deserve the admiralship he didn't even bother to kill for. And it was just a fucking dog, for fuck's sake. What actually bothers me is that-- okay. He was an idiot about that animal. If he had any balls at all, he'd have had me shot for even touching it. Instead, all he does is stick me in the booth for a few hours and then punt me off to bloody DELTA VEGA, frozen armpit of galactic hell. All right, so maybe he's a bit more of an arsehole than I originally thought. Far be it from me to underestimate a person's capability of arseholery.

Do you know, they've got fucking GIANT ICE BUGS here? This would normally be where I utilize my genius-level brain and devise some sort of trap to catch one (for the purpose of having some damn food in the place), but I can't be arsed. (Honestly, they're gigantic buggers. Got claws and mandibles, the whole bit.)

Maybe I'll just stay inside.

And get to work on a plan for getting the fuck off this rock. Yeah. Shouldn't take too long, genius-level that I am.

\-------  
Personal log Engineer Montgomery Scott: Stardate 2257.246. Otherwise known as 3 September, a.k.a. Day Eighteen, and I bet you're wondering why I'm still here. Metaphorical 'you', of course. No, Starfleet has not removed its collective head from its collective arse and realized that it's a crime to maroon such a brilliant and handsome officer on A FUCKING ICE PLANET no I'm not really over that. What Starfleet have done is sent me a bit of company. Fucking odd looking chap, can't be bothered to learn his name if he has one, luckily he eats next to nothing.

There's a booth here. There's a lot of ancient, worthless relics here, but the booth. I mean, why would they need one here? I'm certainly not gonna stick myself in there for gross insubordination. Or mislaying a beagle. Or any number of things I'm sure I'm guilty of.

There's a BOOTH. There's no bloody replicator, but there's a BOOTH. Christ almighty. Might as well strip it for parts.

\-------  
Personal log Engineer Montgomery Scott: Stardate 2257.260. A.K.A. September 17, a.k.a. Day Can't Be Fucked Any Longer. Got a parcel from home. Mum sent a hat. I guess she heard it's a bit nippy here, nights. Don't know what the hell she was thinking when she knitted it. Was probably watching her stories while she was doing it and lost track. Next time, don't bother, mum. Send food instead. (There was also a scarf. It's extremely long. See above, re: stories. Possibly I could hang myself with it.)

Attempts to construct a food replicator from piping and ice-rusted bits of CRAP from old runabouts continue apace. What's that, you think my time would be better spent plotting a diabolical plan for escape and revenge? Can't say the thought hasn't crossed my mind, but a body's got to eat. First thing's first, am I right.

\-------  
Personal log blah blah fucking blah. Lately I've been contemplating philosophy and nature and my place in the universe, which hasn't been going so well. Nature and philosophy can get stuffed. My place in the universe appears to be Delta Vega, which leads me to believe that I am God's personal punching bag. The kind that has the weight in the bottom so it always bounces back up for more.

It's not a perfect metaphor. Except for the part where God and the entire galaxy are laughing their pale, pockmarked arses off at me. That's actually entirely accurate.

Sometimes I wonder if I've gone round the bend. And then I stop wondering. Usually at that point I find something to hit with a spanner.

I would sell my immortal soul for a good shot of scotch. I'd sell my mother for a mediocre shot of scotch. I could probably cook up a bad shot of scotch myself.

New project!

\-------  
Have discovered if I'm obtuse enough about it, I can requisition every single part I need for a still, and not set off a single red flag. Most impressive, if I may congratulate myself. Mostly just needed tubing that wasn't about to disintegrate if it came into contact with oxygen. Snowbound hell moonshine batch number one ought to be ready tomorrow.

\-------  
oh bloody hell  
think i may have stripped the lining from my esophagus

this is pain such as no scotsman has ever felt

fuck

\-------  
Right, so the still still needs a bit of work. Still still. Haha.

(Fuck, I really am losing it, aren't I?)

No, I can't think about that. I'll just add a bit more tubing and not think about how months in the fucking freezing dark of this pathetic excuse for a planetoid has sent me out of my mind.

Right.

A Scotsman, an Irishman, and an Englishman walk into a pub.

Stop me if you've heard this one.

Where was I.

A Scotsman, an Irishman, and an Englishman walk into a pub.

\-------  
It worries me that I may have become somewhat complacent about my predicament. The still notwithstanding. By the by, I did manage to fix it. Just in case you were worried. (Metaphorical 'you.' Shouldn't have to keep reminding myself of that.) The plonk that comes out of it now is just as toxic, but less likely to terrorize my throat. Also makes for a nice warm-me-up in this-- I'm running out of ways to say "cold dark hellhole." I should maybe be worried about that.

The thermometer says it's been getting colder these past few weeks. Am inclined to believe Starfleet dumped me here in summer, or what passes for summer on my own personal ice cube, and it'll just get worse from now. Brilliant. The corridor leading outside is collecting frost at an alarming rate. And the worst bit is, I can't turn the heating up or the whole drunkenly conceived, haphazardly designed, shoddily constructed place will collapse in on itself like an igloo in the tropics. Bloody Starfleet. It's called 'insulation.' Learn, guys.

\-------  
May have sent an ill thought out communique to Starfleet, with regards to said shoddy construction and total lack of insulation in the base on the ice planet. (ICE PLANET, did I mention?) May have received a somewhat short response, including a personal note from Arsehole Archer saying my parole has been revoked and I'm pretty much stuck here until-- well, I would say 'until hell freezes over' but since that's happened, I'll have to come up with another colorful metaphor.

I'm also under clear orders not to contact Command again. Or anyone, really. Maybe they caught on to Project Intoxication. In any case, it's sit down and shut up, Scott, and don't speak unless spoken to. Fuck them. Sideways with a hatstand.

(On the other hand, I've managed to hack my way into the subspace net. Reruns of Monty Python and The Simpsons whenever I want them. Which is most of the time, actually.)

\-------  
I think it's been six months. Not that it matters; I'm pretty much guaranteed never to see Earth again.

So what does it matter what I do here. Matters nothing at all, as far as I can figure.

\-------  
I've reassembled the booth. Not entirely sure why, now that I think about it. Something to do with my hands, I suppose. Aside from wanking. Which gets more depressing every time, let me tell you.

Been working a lot, actually. Rereading my old notes on The Beagle Incident, and I think I can keep going from there. Extrapolate and theorize and all that shite. Really though, I think I can do it.

\-------  


  
therefore  


\-------  
I think I have it. Finally. The math was pointing me right, but the main thing I didn't realise was that it's space that's moving, not the object in transit. Bloody fascinating. And pretty fucking revolutionary, if I do say so myself.

So that's that, then. On to the experimentation phase. I've hacked into Starfleet's routine schedules, and apparently the brand spanking new ISS Enterprise is making its maiden voyage in three days. Now the only question is whether to send them something live or not.

\-------  
I'm sending him. Fucking creepy alien anyway. Eats extra food, lurks around in the dark, looks funy, got little bits of rusty metal for eyes--

Stop justifying. What are you, some kind of captain's woman? Stop justifying and perform the damn experiment.

\-------  
Little bastard's gone. He thrashed a lot but I got him there in the end. Kicked like a mule, that one. And now I scan the subspace news points for word of a greasy alien bloke on the Enterprise. Where everything's shiny and new. Where I should be.

I hate dogs.

\-------  
No word of a greasy alien bloke on the Enterprise; however, definitely word of an unexplained greasy spot in the captain's quarters. Hah, it worked. Take that, Archer. Well. Mostly worked. Sort of worked? Some percentage of whatsisname's molecules ended up where I wanted?

Needs refinement, obviously.

\-------  
My math is solid, but apparently my mind is a bit less so. I am completely out of my fucking tree, aren't I? I wish I hadn't noticed. But then if I didn't want to notice, I wouldn't have recorded it for posterity, would I? Seriously, who uses a sentient being for experimentation? Even if it is really really brilliant stuff?

Times like this I almost wish there was a superior officer here to toss me in the booth. It's only what I deserve. I'd put myself in there if I wasn't an utter pussy.

Probably the only thing to do is get on the damn transporter platform, throw something at the 'on' switch, and see what happens.

Bye, then.


End file.
